I have only a nightmare impression of the next few hours. Every minute I expected the hatch to open and rough hands to seize me and fling me overboard. All the time the beat of the engines ticked away the minutes. It was past midday already. I listened to the sounds of the ship. There was nothing else for me to do. Hour after hour I listened there in the dark, panic seizing me every time footsteps came for’ard along the deck. I was desperately hungry. But I didn’t dare call out for food. It would be foolish to attract attention to myself. I had searched all round the place for a means of escape. The walls were the stern part of the hull, except for’ard, which was a watertight bulkhead. The ceiling was the deck, the floor a steel plate. It was quite hopeless to think of escape. There was just that one exit through the hatch and that was barred.
I don’t know what gave me the idea. I think it must have been the periodic sound of pumping behind the bulkhead. There’d be the sound of a door opening and very often the murmur of voices and then a moment later somebody would start pumping. Only a few strokes and then the door would close. But gradually I got the idea that the bulkhead wasn’t as thick as it should be. I got behind the hatch ladder and began tapping at it. Near the top of the ladder, close under the hatch, it gave a much lighter sound. I tested it with my clasp knife. The wood had partly rotted.
It took me half an hour to pierce the inch-thick wood of the bulkhead, rotten though it was. But after that the going was easier. And when next a man came into the compartment beyond, I could see through the slit an open doorway into the wardroom. I realized then that I was cutting my way through into the after heads. It was heavy work, and the fact that I had to cling to the ladder all the time did not make it easier. Soon I could get my fingers through and tear away little sections of the wood.
Twice I was interrupted by the sliding back of the hatch. The first time I saw the man’s shape outlined against the darkening gray of the sky. But on the second occasion he was just the blazing circle of a torch as he peered down at me. It was past nine in the evening and darkness had set in.
By the time I had ripped away enough of the partition to squeeze myself through it was past eleven. The door of the heads slid open again and I ducked back, keeping perfectly still as I perched on the ladder. The man’s head was on a level with my own. I could hear his breathing and smell the fumes of whisky. Beyond him the lights of the wardroom showed Kean and Spike Edwards seated at the table which rocked gently to the movement of the ship. Glasses and a bottle stood in front of them.
Spike Edwards glanced at his watch. “How much longer, Kean?” he asked.
“Another hour. We’re right on time—that is if my reckonings are correct.”
“They’d better be,” Spike snarled.
Kean picked up his drink. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed. Spike seized hold of his hand. “You had enough of that, mate. We don’t want no slip-ups.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Kean answered. His hand was trembling slightly as he placed the glass on the table again.
“Suppose the trucks ain’t there on time, Skipper?” Spike said.
“They’ll be there,” answered the skipper. His head was so close to me that I could have stretched out my hand and touched it.
“Somebody may have got suspicious.”
“Why should they?” The skipper’s voice was harsh. “They’re post-office cable trucks, both of them. Nobody will think of querying their right to stay parked where the channel cable comes ashore.” He bent forward and for one terrible moment I thought he had seen the hole I had cut. But he was only leaning forward to pump.
“What about that blasted kid?” Spike asked. “The sooner he’s silenced the happier I’ll be.”
The skipper straightened up and pushed open the door into the wardroom. “We’ll deal with him when we know that the trucks are there. Josh will dispose of the body. There’s miles of waste beach dug out for building shingle back of the lighthouse. His body can-lie there and rot and never be discovered.”
“You think of everything, don’t-you, Nat.” Spike’s voice was half sneer, half admiration.
The door was banged to. But it did not shut. An inch wide crack of light continued to show.
“And payment is to be in dollars.” Spike’s voice was barely audible. “Suppose Josh ain’t got dollars. Sterling won’t be no good to us where we’re going.”
“He’ll give us dollars all right,” answered the skipper. “He knows very well he wouldn’t get the liquor at the price we’re offering it unless he could trade dollars.” Spike grunted. “I hopes you’re right, that’s all. And I hopes that boy ain’t leading us up the garden path about exchanging the ML for a schooner. This boat will be getting pretty hot by the time we’re off Bilbao.”
“You needn’t worry about that either. He’ll be waiting for us and only too glad to get the ML. They need it off Palestine.”
There was the clink of a bottle neck against the rim of a glass. “Well, here’s to the Cocos gold, mate.” I heard him gulp at the drink and suck his lips. Then he cursed. “If you hadn’t shot that little swine Irwin we’d know where the stuff was by now. Funny he never left no record. Howling there in the boat, ‘You fools. I know where the stuff is.’ And coughing away his life as he rowed ashore. And we thought his gadget wasn’t no good. The hours he used to spend alone with it down in the engine room. Do you reckon he really located the stuff, Nat?”
“Yes,” replied the skipper. “No man thinks up a lie like that when he’s dying. And we know every place he tried. Taffy’s a fine electrician. He can find anything that Irwin found. We’ll be back within a year, loaded to the gunn’ls with gold bars and precious stones.”
“Well, I hopes you’re right. But it’s funny he left no record, that’s all. And we never found his body. That was queer, too. Didn’t recover an’ get took off with you, did he, Kean?” His voice was suddenly suspicious.
“No,” was the reply. And then suddenly in a wilder voice. “Why don’t you drop the whole thing? You’re getting fifty thousand dollars for running this cargo. Why not be content with that? I’ve got a feeling about this expedition. It’ll be the same as it was with poor Garrod’s map. Cocos has always held on to its treasure. Nobody ever got anything out of the place—except Keating. I hate that island.” His voice had risen to a higher pitch. “I hate the place, I tell you. I had a year there. Three hundred and eighty-six days. White ants and jungle and the waves beating on the shore. And Irwin with a bullet in his guts.”
“Shut up!” cried the skipper. There was the smack of a blow and a sharp cry. “Now pull yourself together. Irwin died because he tried to escape.”
“No use wasting words on him, Nat,” Spike put in. “He’s half-drunk already.”
“You’re right. Lock it away, Spike. Time we were getting ready to unload. You better come on deck, Kean. A bit of fresh air will clear your brain. And we don’t want any slip-up in our landfall.”
“There won’t be any slip-up.”
I heard Kean get to his feet. Then the door opened and he came into the heads. I could see the others leaving the wardroom and going up on deck.
“Mr. Kean,” I whispered.
He started as though he’d heard a ghost.
“It’s me—Johnny,” I hissed.
“Oh, God!” he groaned, and his voice sounded dazed.
“I can get out through here. I could slip over the side and swim ashore. I’m a good swimmer. Could you give me a signal, so I know when we’re close to the shore? Then I’ll swim for it.”
“No. No, you mustn’t do that.” His voice was a whisper. “There’ll be men waiting for you on the shore.”
“But it’s my only chance, isn’t it? They’re—” I hesitated. To put it into words brought a cold sweat of terror. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?” I jerked out.
“Yes,” he said. And then: “God help me!”
“Give me a signal, Mr. Kean—please,” I urged. “Perhaps they’ll miss me in the dark. Give me
a chance to get away. I won’t say anything to anyone. I promise.”
He leaned back on the door check. I could see the outline of his face against the light from the wardroom. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t let them kill me. Give me just one chance.”
He straightened himself slowly. “All right,” he said. “Have you got a watch?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Right. Set it by mine. It’s now twelve twenty-seven.” His voice was suddenly calm and authoritative as though he were briefing men before an action. I set my watch to his time. “We should make the shore about one five. You’ll hear me slow the engines while the skipper makes radio contact and we wait for the signal from the shore. When the engines go ahead again you’ll know we’re going in. Slip out then and when the engines are slowed for the beaching, get up on deck and over the side. O.K.?”
“Yes,” I said. “And thanks, Mr. Kean. I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll go back to ‘The Bridge of Orchy’ as though nothing had happened.”
“All right. And good luck.” He paused suddenly in the doorway. “See that Nick is fed, will you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
He went out of the heads then and across the wardroom. I heard his feet on the companionway. The wardroom was empty. The door of the heads rattled in its slide. And I crouched there by the ladder, waiting, and watching the luminous dial of my wrist watch.
3. IRWIN’S MAP
Never in all my life have forty minutes seemed so long. The luminous hands of my watch seemed to drag by as I crouched by the ladder, waiting for the moment when I could slip through the gap and out into the freedom of the open air. I didn’t consider what it would be like, swimming in the darkness with men waiting for me on the shore. I just waited breathless for the moment when I should be free and clear of that terrible ship. And all the time I crouched there, I was in an agony of fear that the hatch would slide back and they would come down to fetch me.
But at last it was one o’clock. I listened, waiting for the sound of the engine-room telegraph. All I heard was the beat of my heart. Five minutes past one. Still no sound. Even the footsteps of the crew were still. It was as though they all stood motionless, watching and waiting. Then the rhythm of the engines died to a slower beat. Somewhere beyond the wardroom I could hear the tap-tap-tap of a Morse key. Then the engines picked up again. No engine-room telegraph. Kean was using the speaking tube only.
I could wait no longer. By the time I was through into the wardroom the engines would have slowed again. I slipped my legs through the hole. Then, grasping the ladder with my hands, I maneuvered my body through, feeling with my feet for the rim of the heads. A moment later I was across the wardroom and creeping up the companionway to the deck. Still, the engines had not slowed. A breath of cool air fanned my face. It smelled fresh and sweet after the stuffiness of the tiller flat. I put my head through the hatch. Everything was dark. Not a light anywhere. All round me I could see the dim bulk of packing cases lashed to the deck.
Then above me, from the dark bulk of the bridge, came a voice. “There it is. Over there on the starboard bow.”
“I see it,” answered Kean’s voice. “Starboard ten.”
“Starboard ten it is,” came the helmsman’s answer. The ship heeled very slightly as we altered course. I peered for’ard round the engine hatch. Slanting across our bows was a blurred line of white where the sea was breaking on a steep shingle bank. Away to the right a pin-point flash of red showed and was gone. The beach was suddenly in silhouette to the swinging beam of a light. Dungeness lighthouse, opposite .Boulogne. I had a brief glimpse of black, choppy water and then the beam had passed over us and out to sea. In a few minutes now I should be in that dark water, swimming for my life.
I thought of the desolate waste of shingle ahead of us, there where the waves were breaking, and I shivered. My father had shown me Dungeness once. It was when he’d been stationed at Chatham before the war. We’d come down for a run. I remembered how the coast road swung inland at the Pilot Inn. There was nothing on the shingle flats but fishermen’s huts and boats and the coast guard station with the lighthouse. A bleak, dreary place where the fishermen lived in wooden shacks and wore slats of wood on their feet to help them across the shingle. No road, no means of transport, except the miniature railway from Hythe.
We were closing the shore now. I could just hear the thud and suck of the waves above the steady hum of the engines. A man slipped quietly down the ladder from the bridge. I tensed ready to spring to the rail if he should be coming toward the wardroom companionway. But he slipped aft, a dark shadow momentarily outlined against the swinging beam of the lighthouse. It was Spike Edwards. He made no sound. He was wearing rubber shoes. I heard a hatch cover pulled back and the faint glow of a shielded torch in the stern. And then my heart leaped into my mouth, for he was peering down the hatch of the tiller flat. The engines slowed for the run into the beach as he called out softly: “Nat! The kid ain’t there.”
“Then find him,” came the answer from the bridge.
For the space of a second I could not move. My feet seemed frozen to the companionway. Then I started for the rail.
But I was too late. As I dived out of the hatch, Spike had me. I struggled wildly, but his hand was at my throat and before I could scream he had covered my mouth. I felt his huge thumbs searching for my windpipe. I knew he was going to throttle me and I bit and clawed at him in a frenzy. I got my mouth free and screamed and my rolling eyes caught a glimpse of Kean looking down at me from the bridge. Then through the wild panic of my struggle I heard the engine-room telegraph ring, the engines pound into life and the klaxon blare. There was a shout. The spotlight flashed on. Spike relaxed his grip in surprise. I have a momentary impression of the beach coming at us out of the darkness, of two big trucks parked at the top of the shingle slope and of men running, running for their lives, climbing into them in the blaze of our spotlight.
Then there was a crash that flung me to the deck. The ship grated as she bit into the shingle. The bridge sagged and crumpled. Two men were struggling in the wreckage. Spike swung clear of me. He had a gun in his hand and he began firing. There was an answering shot from the tangle of broken ironwork and he dropped to the deck with a grunt and didn’t move. Something flashed past me with an unearthly, grating cry that sent a shiver down my spine.
After that everything was pandemonium. But in the kaleidoscope of happenings several impressions stand out clear in my mind. I remember seeing the trucks, with their headlights blazing, start off from the beach. I caught a brief glimpse of Kean struggling out of the wreckage of the bridge. He had a smoking gun in his hand and his face was bleeding. He called to me. I think he was telling me to get clear of the ship. Somebody close by him swore horribly. He was a big man in the shadow of the broken wheelhouse. He also had a gun in his hand. A spurt of flame showed as he fired. Kean doubled up, clutching at his stomach. Very slowly he crumpled up on to the deck. I dived for the rail and the next moment I had hit the sea and was fighting my way to the surface.
The water was bitterly cold. When I came up, gasping for breath, I was just out of the break of the waves. I dived immediately and swam under water away from the ship as long as I had breath. When I surfaced again and looked back, the crew were clustered around the davits aft. They weren’t searching for me. They were busy lowering the dinghy. I trod water, knowing I was safer there than on the beach. The davits were suddenly empty as the boat hit the water. The outboard spluttered into life and then I saw the boat backing out from under the stern of the ML. For a moment I thought they were coming to look for me. But as she went ahead, the bows swung away toward Hythe. I had a vague glimpse of men’s bodies huddled together close to the water. Then she was swallowed up in the darkness and the stutter of her engine died slowly into the night.
The only sound now was the crash and slither of the waves as they pounded white against the steep shingle beach. The ML lay quite still with her bows crumpled i
n the shingle and her searchlight blazing on to the beach, showing the black, tarry hull of a small motor fishing boat and a fisherman’s shack higher up, near the triangular signpost marking the position of the crosschannel cable.
I put my head down and swam toward the beach. A wave lifted me up and broke, seething round me. My feet touched shingle and then the backwash dragged me back. The next wave broke right over me, flinging me against the shingle so that I hardly had breath enough to fight clear of the water and up the steep beach.
My teeth were chattering with the cold and my ankle ached as I trudged along the beach toward the ML. I don’t know what I intended to do. I think my mind was more or less a blank of physical and mental exhaustion. But when I was quite close to the ML, I suddenly noticed a movement on her decks. I stopped. The fear that Spike Edwards might still be alive took hold of me. But I hadn’t the strength left in me to run on that hard shingle. I just stood and stared in horror at that broken ship, remembering the shots that had been fired and how Kean had doubled up with his hands clutching at his stomach.
Somebody was still on board. I could see a movement by the wreckage of the bridge. He was hauling himself to his feet by one of the ventilators. With a gasp of relief I saw it was Kean. I called out to him. But he didn’t hear. He was half doubled up and one hand was still pressed to his stomach. I ran then, past the torn bows until I could see the starboard side of the ship. There were the davit ropes trailing in the water. I hesitated. The waves were thundering on the shingle and I didn’t know whether I could make it. But the memory of what Kean had done urged me on and I took a deep breath and plunged down the bank, straight into the break of a wave.
In an instant I was clear of the broken water and swimming along the ship’s side. The gray, smooth hull seemed to tower above me. I reached the davit ropes and clung to them, gasping for breath and summoning the strength to pull myself up. Then slowly, very slowly, I dragged myself clear of the water, pulling myself up with my feet braced against the hull.
Cocos Gold Page 5